A New York Christmas Carol
by webdlfan
Summary: From the possibly overused Christmas Carol...here's is a story for the Christmas season...of Danny and Lindsay and Flack and Angell, of Mac and Stella... & the story that could of been, save a few little details. Merry Christmas! Humor & eggs included
1. Chapter 1

**_So ... here I am supposed to be cleaning my house and this is what happened instead. Just a little idea that's been done before in a dozen different ways ... and maybe even a CSI:NY way, I don't know. Takes place in season 4 mid way-in that place few want to go again. But don't worry. It just might come out a little differently. (Some of the future timeline is a little messed with-but you'll see eventually :p )_**

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They'd been assigned a murder on the West Side. From the time they arrived, the tension between them was cold. Even Flack, normally one to crack wise cracks and jokes, simply walked away. His last words to Lindsay, whatever they were—were quiet.

When he took her hand, and she smiled gently up at him in understanding, Danny nearly snapped.

He stopped himself, as he thought all over again of Reuban and of his mother, and he held the retort in so that it burned in his chest. If Lindsay saw something in Flack she couldn't see in him—that was her business. They were only dangling on the edges of relationship anyway. She deserved better.

Still he couldn't keep the bitterness from crawling out of him. At the world, at himself. It spilled over toward her. For the most part, she placated him. It drove him nuts.

_Just end it_, he wanted to say.

Finally, as they packed up to head home, she seemed to get the message.

"Are you sure you want to do this now?" she snapped. He looked across at her, expecting to see ice cycles, like picks, pointed at him. Instead he saw sadness.

He swallowed against the guilt. "No," he snapped back. He didn't have it in him, not to fight with her, not to talk to her. Not to _end it_, as he should.

He climbed in the avalanche as she did—silent. He stared ahead, his jawline tense. Around him snow fell, in small flakes. A memory flashed of last year. She'd been the one who was sad at Christmas. He'd heard some rumors around the lab, about how she'd broken down. He'd seen her crack, just a little.

So, he took her to central park, as the snow fell.

He told her to look up, thinking she was homesick. "See—its just like Montana."

But when he looked back down, he saw her looking at him. "No," she murmured, and for the first time in months reached out her hand to him. "No it's not."

He'd taken her hand, and they'd walked through the park as it snowed. Her hand was gloved, and so was his, but it didn't matter. They'd wondered over to the statue where Hans Christian Anderson looked on a duck. A for a moment—just a moment—he head had rested on her arm.

And he'd pretended, just for a moment, that it was all okay.

Now, he just felt cold. He should have stopped himself. He didn't have it in him to do that, to be that—whatever it was—for her. Or anyone.

"Danny?"

She'd put her hand on his arm, this time ungloved, her skin seeming so warm to him—even through his coat. He looked down at her hand, then up through the windshield as he started the truck and he ignored her.

She would be better off without him, he told himself.

And the grief blinded him, so that the squeek of tires and her scream seemed so distant. A flash of light and he thought—

It's over. He was glad it was over...

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_** I know I don't always put the best effort into editing, but as this is a Christmas story and Christmas is three or four days away, I'm going to push this out ASAP. It's mostly written, just pulling out or putting in a few details as I post.**_


	2. Chapter 2

**_Back from my cleaning break to take a break! I just have to say, this was fun to write. :p I need to get it finished and to chapter 4. You want to see chapter 4... there's a little egg present for you. eggs are fun to find ... even at Christmas, right? But there might be one or two in here as well. Actually, I just finished a little research with commuted sentences. It was tough going I tell you. sigh. If only we could have more commuted sentences. :)_**

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Chapter 2:

It was hot. Danny jerked awake, surprised to feel the heat, the sweat on his brow. He looked around, surprised to find himself in his old bedroom. His childhood bedroom, with the baseball memorabilia on the wall. It confused him as it was still decorated with Yankees memorabilla, because it hadn't been that way in years, not since he'd still been in the stage where he did everything his father did. At some point he'd added in his own pieces of the Mets. He couldn't replace one with the other. Both were part of him.

But he frowned. His dad hadn't come in his room and taken it down ... had he?

"You're up. Finally."

At the sound of the familiar voice he turned his head. His brother sat there at his bed side. "Louie."

Louie grinned that trademark Messer snarl. "In the flesh. At least for a little while."

"What are you doing here? You're..."

"Dead?" he shrugged. "No, not yet. There's still a little time for me yet."

He pushed up, reached over and tossed a stack of clothes at Danny. "Put these on. We don't have much time."

Danny stared down at the jeans and t-shirt that lay folded on his chest—and smelled, he thought—oddly of his mother.

"For what?"

"Always with the questions. Just get dressed."

It was odd, but he did what his brother told him. Maybe for once he knew what it meant to waste time, and that sometimes you wanted, needed to savor it.

They walked through the house, the sounds familiar. His mother was banging around in the kitchen. For all the noise she made about him, she could never cook quietly. And there was a television on—an afternoon game. It was funny how you could tell the difference. Baseball. Night vs. afternoon.

That was summer. It wasn't summer. Was it? The heat was rolling over them, the sounds of baseball on the tv and outside, in the yard. There was always a game to be found somewhere in the summer. It was summer in the city-and for a moment he thought back, thought back and felt what it felt like to be there, on the edge of growing up.

But when they stepped outside, and the screen door slammed behind them, they weren't in New York anymore.

"What the ..." the curse slid off his tongue and he stared out at the flat land scape, with the wheatfield in the distance. Or rather, he assumed it was wheat. Something was growing golden in the distance.

And there, in the yard, with a tractor to the side was a group of kids, playing ball. He watched the girl, who'd come to the plate. She stood, ready to hit—her stance so determined.

_Over_ determined, he thought and he couldn't help but smile at the spirit. The kid, he thought, had spirit.

Reuban—

He felt a hand on his arm and he looked over at Louie. "Don't go there."

"What?"

"Just don't go there. It wasn't your fault. Freak things happen. Bad things happen. You made a choice that day to do the right thing, you followed your instinct. It brought you to Montana before didn't it?"

"And cost a kid his life."

"No-that wouldn't have changed, I'm afriad. But other things would have ... you can't not be you, be a cop, be sworn to protect. Take it from me. I made the wrong choices, but your instinct saved you then, and maybe in the end, it saved a whole lot of other people. Maybe it even saved your Montana," Louie looked out across the field, his eyes dark with memories. "I made my own choices and you were going to pay for them. You could have paid earlier," he reached out, slapped the back of his head. "But at least one of us has brains in there. Sometimes, there's nothing you could do. Nothing you could have done. You could ask her about it."

Danny frowned. "Who?"

Louie nodded toward the game and Danny looked back. The girl swung, fast and hard—and struck out.

The boys on the field, two on base started yelling at her, even as they ran in. "You're such a dreamer." one said.

"Get your head out of the clouds," said another.

"You're fired," said a third.

"You can't fire someone from baseball!" said the girl. She threw down her bat and shoved—at the largest of the boys.

The screen door openned behind them. "Lindsay!" came the cry—and even as Danny turned, a jolt of surprise in his stomach at the name. But he knew, however it was, he _knew_. He could recognize the sound of a mother.

She had Lindsay's eyes, not the rich brown color, but the shape of them. And she had Lindsay's lips, her height. He heard the heavy trodden footfall on the porch steps. When he turned around to watch her, he felt an ache—one of surprise and memory. Softer, gentler, then what he thought now.

She wasn't as young as she'd seemed from far away. But she was still a child.

And yet there was the same spirit in her eyes, the same ... determination.

"Mom, they—"

"Do not mom, me. What have I told you about fighting with your brothers?"

"They started it."

"And they can finish it and beat the daylights out of you in the same way they do each other. You're not going to get into that."

"But—"

"Why are we having this conversation? Didn't I recently take a certain _Trumar double-oh-eight_ slingshot from you?" her look was narrow and pointed, and Danny felt the memory he shared with Lindsay roll over him.

_What, you should pebbles at squirrels back in Montana?_

_No, I used to shoot boys_.

It made him smile a little, at the defiance and disappointment that clashed in Lindsay's eyes as she slowly lowered her gaze. Her mother nodded. She had something—the same something—his own mother had when she wanted her way. "If you can't behave yourself, I'll have to tell the girls to go home."

"The _girls," _little Montana muttered still frowning at the porch, her arms crossed,"aren't _here_."

Lindsay's mother reached out and turned her daughter, then pointed down the road. "I made a few calls."

A SUV came down the road, dust flying behind it. As Danny watched, the girls arrived. They piled out of the car, they're squealing and talking the stuff of little girls.

He followed them for the day, simply because he couldn't look away. Even as the ball game continued with her brothers and their friends, he stayed with Lindsay-the young Lindsay. For the first time in his life, Danny spent the day in the presence of girls as they talked boys, music and movies. She was already spouting facts, it came naturally to her, but it was facts about teen heart throbs and movies. Some about science.

The girls laughed. They finished each other's sentences. There was a depth between them. They talked. And talked. And talked... and he didn't mind. He just ... aborbed.

And then as evening fell, it got quiet. They built a fire in the back yard, and sat around it. The tone changed. They talked about their futures. Lindsay, for once, was silent. She listened to the dreams and plans of the girls around her. One wanted to marry some crush—the others laughed. That one wanted to stay near her family. Another wanted to go to Nashville, and make a record. Another planned to be a lawyer or a doctor or whatever it took to get her out of Montana.

They teased Lindsay that she would end up on a pit crew in Nascar—but before she could open up and share her dream for herself—the girls were called inside. It was time to go home.

He turned, and watched them run inside, and he started to ache, for he knew—suddenly—what Lindsay had lost. It wasn't just a friendship.

The cold returned. He hadn't realized how warm he'd felt all day. But he recognized the cold. And with a sinking feeling he turned back. The bonfire was gone, the pit dark and cold. Lindsay sat—older now—on the edge of the blackened earth. The look on her face was ... ashen.

Alone.

He felt for her, the crushing loss. The deep wound.

He stepped forward. He wanted to ...

And then she was gone, and it was dark.

It was just dark.

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**_Dun dun dun ... feeling depressed? Hopefully not! It's Christmas! More to come soon. I hope. :p Time to do more winter cleaning. Cleaning out. Moving furniture. Cleaning cleaning cleaning!_**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hope your Christmas is going great! I guess by now you're getting the feel for what's going to happen. Maybe, maybe not. I think you'll have a little surprise here, a little something fun along with the something that just is ... there's no time like the _present! LOL _...**

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Chapter 3:

This time he woke from the sound of his phone beeping. He groaned, and rolled over, blinking as he reached first for his glaces, then for his phone. From the tone he knew not to expect a person, but the automated system that was directing him in. He was on call, he reminded himself, even as the memories of the dream followed him.

He could still see the girls, _the girls_, as Lindsay had called them ... and the look on her face when they were gone.

With his glass on he pushed himself up and swung his legs off the bed. It was Lindsay's room. Her home. Her bed was smaller than his. She said it was a full bed, but he was convinced it had to be smaller-if _that _was possible. She'd had to buy it so it would fit in the cramped little apartment she'd found.

He was surprised to find himself naked. No wonder he felt closer to her last night than he'd been in awhile, no wonder she'd followed him into his dreams. Maybe, in some off way, it had been her way of helping him. Not that it mattered. It didn't change _anything_. He hadn't been with her—at least, not in the same way, not in that easy going way he'd found only with Lindsay. The few times they'd ... connected, he just hadn't ...

But as he was without clothes ...

Except, there was warmth. And laughter. He could remember laughing. It felt odd, to think he could laugh.

"You're taking your time."

At the voice, he jerked and grabbed for a pillow to cover himself. _"Stella_—" he looked over at his boss, who sat in the chair nearby drinking a cup of coffee from one of Lindsay's tourist mugs. "_What _are you doing here?"

"Waiting on you," she said and lifted a brow.

"No—in _here_."

He would have gestured, but that meant moving his hands from the single pillow.

She shrugged a shoulder. "As I said—but if you prefer, I could go get Mac and Flack and we could all have a front row seat."

He thought of Louie, of the dream and realized he'd been naked when he'd woken then as well. It was different with Louie. But with Stella? So—was this just another dream?

And had it been a dream? He knew Lindsay's story, but it had felt so real to see it, to live it.

So very _real_.

Stella cleared her throat, then nodded toward the stack of clothes next to Danny on the bed. "Get dressed."

He looked at the slacks and pressed shirt, laid neatly out beside him, and then back at her.

"Go on—it's nothing I haven't seen."

"You haven't seen _me_," he reminded her, a blushed a little as he felt the color rise in his cheeks. He didn't blush, and this _wasn't_ happening.

She only laughed and pushed up from the chair. He didn't like the way she laughed. As if she had seen more than she was telling. But he _knew _better. He _knew ..._

"I'll wait for you outside."

Danny got dressed quickly, but as he reached for the door, he realized how cold he felt all of the sudden, as if for a little while he had been warm.

Then he pushed it open and was surprised to see Stella was indeed in Lindsay's living room. He'd half expected to open the door and be on the street. The room was ... the same. Exactly the same, small and cramped and smelling of whatever candle she'd brought home. She had enough room for a love seat and a small table that was pushed against the window. How many times had they sat at that table, and looked out on the building next door ... making plans, or saying nothing at all? How many minutes had he wasted just ... enjoying the quiet?

He looked away, uncertain that he would ever have that again, and he saw bags all around, a tree—about six feet high—that leaned against the wall, still wrapped in its netting. There were boxes of lights at its feet.

The room was dark.

"She's trying to put together a Christmas to remember," Stella said and Danny looked at her. "It's your first Christmas together, you know. She blames herself a little that last year wasn't your first."

It was Christmas? He'd forgotten.

"I know, mom. I know ..."

At Lindsay's voice, sounding a little too chipper to his ears, he looked to the small kitchen area where she stood now and set a pan on the stove. He walked toward her, he couldn't help it, but he felt Stella's hand on his arm.

"... me too," she looked down at the cookie sheet, and frowned. Then she picked it up and turned its contents into the garbage. He could smell them now. Nice and burnt.

Now that was his _Montana_.

He almost smiled, but he couldn't. She just seemed so sad.

"We have a tree. You can find trees outside of Montana. And lights and even snow," she laughed a little. "I know ..." she said as she walked the five steps into the living area and plopped down on the love seat. "I _know_. I love you, too."

She forced a smile, even into the phone, but as she disconnected, it disappeared. She looked down at the phone and sighed, setting it aside. She curled into a little ball and stared forward at the tree. The tree that leaned against the wall.

"She pulled the tree all the way up the stairs by herself," Stella said. "It was your idea, but you didn't show up, but she got a tree anyway because she wanted to make sure you had one, because she was hoping maybe a little of the Christmas spirit would help."

"I just said it to distract her," he murmured, remembering now. That—he realized—was a real memory. She'd been concerned about him, was pushing him to spend some time with her. To _talk_. So he'd said they'd pick out a tree. He'd seen one on the top of a car, going down the road. He hadn't thought anymore about it.

And he hadn't been able to go. He hadn't let himself go. Reuban's mother didn't have a tree, didn't want a tree ... so why should he? Why should he open up? Why should he try and feel better?

He couldn't let her in. If he let her in, he would _feel_ her. If he started to feel ...

"This wasn't just your first Christmas together, it was really the first chance she had to enjoy Christmas in New York. She didn't get Christmas off her first year—naturally, it was her first year," Stella shrugged. "You know, she didn't even ask, didn't even complain. She took the duty brought about ten dozen very hard Christmas cookies she'd decorated herself into the lab to cheer us all up."

Danny nodded. He remembered the cookies. They'd been around awhile. Though, he'd had his fair share. Who didn't like icing? "I took her to mom's on Sunday. The next Sunday."

Stella nodded and ran a hand down his back, to comfort the way she did so naturally. "And your mom cooked her best roast and treated Lindsay like a long lost friend of yours. What? You think Lindsay didn't tell us? It was a sweet gesture."

"Yeah." he grumbled, wondering what else Lindsay had told. "Whatever."

Stella shook her head. "Last year, she was still new—but when I suggested she head home, she said she had to save the days. It ended up being for the trial. She knew it was coming up then. And this year ..."

"She stayed for me." Realization dawned. Why he thought about that _now_ ...

"Mmmm," Stella looked back, and Danny followed her gaze. A solitary tear slid down Lindsay's cheek.

He took a step forward, and Stella put out a hand to stop him.

But he couldn't—he couldn't stop. Whether it was a dream or it was reality, he couldn't hold back from her. Not now, not when he was the cause. This was him. This is what he did ...

He sat down beside her, reached out—and watched as his hand passed through her.

"You can't make a connection with her," Stella told him, but he was watching Lindsay desperate to touch a feel and comfort. He sat and watched the tears as they came.

"Go home—" he told Lindsay, or tried to tell her, tried to get through to her. He couldn't touch her, couldn't make it better. So he told her, he told her and hoped that she could hear him. "Go home. Don't stay here for me."

"She can't hear you," Stella told him. "And even if she could, she's not crying for home. That's not going to fix it."

"Then what—"

"She wants to help you. She wants to believe in you, but she's afraid ..."

"Afraid of what?"

"That she's not enough. That she can't help. As she couldn't help before."

The moment flashed, of Lindsay as a teen sitting on the edge of the cold fire pit, the night surrounding her. "That wasn't her fault."

_And neither is it yours_.

But the words didn't come from Stella. They weren't voiced at all.

Instead they echoed in the room—an echo as he ached with it—like the simple pounding of his heart. Da dum. Da dum.

Da dum.

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_**So what are you thinking? Do you want more? It should be coming soon, though I've got some outside work to do now. :P And I think the next part is my favorite part-full of tiny eggs, just for you and you and you! But, its sad ... you know what's next, right? You know the classic story ... so maybe you're already guessing what happens next. :p But I promise one small fun surprise. Maybe it's fun ... coming up next it's my favorite part! :p**_


	4. Chapter 4

**_Part 4 ... this is the chapter I am most excited about (and have been most excited about writing since the idea popped in there), simply because of one little detail (or big) depending on how you look at it. Or HIM! Or HER! Or THEM! LOL. Just having a little fun-it made me laugh-hopefully it will you as well. Otherwise, Dickens gets really depressing about now. :p not that I, in any way, am comparing myself to Dickens! _**

**_Anyway, hope this is a fitting Christmas surprise ... no time like the FUTURE, right?_**

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Chapter 4:

This time, he awoke to a flash of light. He blinked, started to feel the ache of his back. He pushed up, unsurprised to find himself naked again in sleep.

Nor was he surprised to find that he had fallen asleep on his sofa. He'd taken to sleeping there ... for awhile.

But it seemed so long ago now.

He looked over, thinking it would be day time, but the first thing he saw was darkness out the windows. The light came from ...

He jolted with surprise.

"_Angell_."

She laughed at him as he reached for the throw to cover himself. She sat clothed in white—or rather the color of candles—the color so rich, it seemed to glow like a candle.

"_Messer_. You really think any of that matters to me?"

He thought of Flack—the man had a serious crush on the woman. "I should hope _not_."

"Good. Even when I knew you, I had my mind set of that one."

"That one what?"

"The one for me," she said, then nodded toward his side where a pile of clothes sat.

"Let me guess—" he murmured. "Get dressed."

"Yes—but how about I quicken this process for you. We need to get going, or we'll be late."

"Late for what?"

She only smiled. "Besides, you're not going to enjoy getting dressed this time."

_No, _he thought, because someone should have done their laundry. But he was suddenly clothed, true— in smelly clothes.

She held out a hand, waited for him to take it. He was surprised, again, as he felt warmth in her hand—in her fingertips. He'd been cold again.

"Let's go."

But this time, they didn't walk. It was more a fade from one to another. They were suddenly in another apartment, in another area.

And there was Lindsay. Her hair was a bit longer, a little grey. She was standing in front of a Christmas tree, her eyes sad as she simply stared a head. Thinking, remembering ... it reminded him of seeing her on that couch, being unable to touch her unable to ... make it better.

"She decorated for Christmas." It was an understatement really. There were decorations everywhere. The trea was laiden with ornaments, wreaths hun on the walls, pictures were covered with wrapping paper. Every surface had something on it.

"Yes," Jessica said. "She has every year since the year that should have been your first year together. Of course, she had a reason to make sure Christmas happened then ... for someone else."

As church bells rang outside, Lindsay jerked and brought herself back from whereever she had gone. "Lydia," she called out, checking her watch. "Lydia Danielle. I said ten minutes."

He heard the run—the sound of feet on an apartment floor so familiar in his childhood and started when the teenage girl careened into thr room. "Sorry, mom. I was just checking the weather. They're still saying snow."

Lindsay stepped forward and she smiled as she reached out, slid an arm around her ... _daughter_.

"Lindsay's a mom."

"Yes," Jessica murmured.

He watched mother and daughter stand there with the church bells playing outside as they turned together and looked at the tree.

"I wish dad could be here."

Something flashed in Lindsay's eyes. Something painful and dark. She turned her head and kissed Lydia's head. "_I know_."

"Danielle," Danny repeated, as he stared at the girl's eyes—eyes that were so familiar to his own. "She's ..."

"Yours?" Jessica said. "Yes. She's your's."

"Where am I? Why am I not ..." his throat closed up and around the word.

"You didn't want responsibility. You told Lindsay you couldn't handle it. You couldn't be a father, and that no kid would want you for their father."

He'd walked away. He'd kept the promise he'd made to himself and he'd walked away from Lindsay. He stared at the girl—the girl that was his own. "She's beautiful."

"And sad. She never really got to know you."

Just then, the door behind them openned. Mother and daughter turned. Danny jolted.

"_Blake__."_

"_Mmm_," Jessica murmured.

The other man nodded toward them—toward _his _girls. They were _his_ girls, Danny thought. There was a smile on Blake's face, but there was always a smile on Blake's face. Still, it just didn't seem ...

"Ready?"

"Yes ..." Lindsay turned back and looked at the tree. He was surprised. She looked content, she looked settled, maybe even happy.

But she didn't seem ... the same.

_Vibrancy_. She was missing her vibrancy.

The girls—_his girl's_—disappeared through the door with Blake. It closed behind them.

"What happened?" he asked the silence.

"Lindsay raised _Lydia_, while you drunk yourself into a stuper. She allowed you limited visitation—somewhat forced it on you—but managed to convince her daughter that you were such an amazing fellow," when Danny frowned at her, Jessica snickered. "I _know_ right?"

"And _Blake_? Why _Blake_?"

"Why _not_ Blake, Messer? She'd given her heart already to you. She lived alone and raised a daughter alone. After awhile, he paid enough attention that she thought, why not? Why live alone? An honest and good man was promising to be there for her. And he was good with Lydia. He's a good man."

"She doesn't seem ... _happy_, though."

"There are different levels of happiness, and there are a lot of levels of loneliness," Jessica murmured. "She experienced all of those for a long time. And she carries them with her. She carries with her questions of what if ... what if she had done this, or said this ... would it have made a difference."

"She can't take that blame. She can't save me."

"No," Jessica said quietly, "but you can."

Then the room disappeared, and it was cold, so cold again. He was outside, in a graveyard, and alone. Darkness swirled, the wind carried with it ice.

And knowing ... knowing exactly what he'd find, he looked down.

And into his own grave.

"Don't..."

At the voice, he turned with surprise. And there was Reuban, the kid ...

"You're a good man, Danny," he said, his eyes bright with conviction. "My mom always said so and always thought so. You would have saved me—you would have caught the bullet yourself if you would have known."

"You died alone."

"I died thinking your were the coolest super hero ever. You were going after the bad guys. It didn't hurt so much."

Danny swallowed a lump in his throat. Or tried to. He was so very cold.

"But ..." Reuban looked toward the grave. "It makes me sad to know I pushed you to this."

"You didn't," Danny murmured. "You had nothing to do with it."

"Then what happened? Why did you change?"

"I'm the adult. I should have been watching out for you."

"Adults go after the bad guy. Adults do their job," Reuban tilted his head, and for a moment, Danny thought he saw a flash—a flash of Lindsay. "You have more to do. Please don't stop doing it. Don't stop being Danny."

"I—"

"If you really loved me Danny, then be the man I remember—but not for me. I'm not there anymore," he looked down at the grave and then back up at Danny. "You've got to get out of my mom's way, Danny. She can't start to depend on you-you can't be me for her. And she's going to get messed up in the head if you try to be. She won't see you as you as a man. She'll try to control you, as if you are me. You can't do that to her, or yourself."

"Your mom needs help."

Reuban grinned softly. "Sometimes. But most of the time she's the strongest person I've ever know. Be the man for Lindsay. And for Lucy. That's your job. My mom's strong. She can be strong. She'll get it together. I know it."

"Wait ..." Danny was stuck on one small detail. "Lucy?"

"It's a better name, don't you think," he grin grew—that easy going grin that Danny couldn't resist. "Louie said so."

"Louie."

"We talk, he and I. He said to tell you to name the kid Lucy. Everything will be okay if you name her Lucy. That's what he said to do. And he said he didn't save your life for nothin'. He expects good things from you."

"But ..."

But even as his own protest echoed, the wind picked up and swirled around him. And suddenly darkness fell again.

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**Unfortunately, this is the future ... so with the visitor from the future, Angell seemed to so clearly fit the roll. So ... in the end, will Danny. I have to know what you think. Did you get just a tiny little jolt or laugh when Lindsay's husband appeared? Can you _imagine! _Though now that i'm thinking about it I didn't make Stella dead because it was the present, but really, maybe that roll should be ... and I should go back and change it to Aiden. It think it fits more. Also ... tried to work in Sid here either. Didn't work. Reuban just said what needed to be said. **


	5. Chapter 5

_**And this is it ... part 5, dedicated to all CSI: NY fans, especially to Runner043, (thanks for the great discussions) whatever ship or reason we watch, the center of it all is the show itself. :) to many many more years of CSI: NY, and here's hoping the writers begin to plant eggs of their own writing into the stories, to tie in and validate everything we see and remember (because finding eggs in an episode is fun), and to all the great fan fiction writers ... thanks for great stories... (and sorry for the delay in posting-had to do some family stuff in the middle, as well as tackle a plumbling issue. again. :p )**_

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Chapter 5:

He was cold when he woke up. He blinked to light. He glanced down, surprised to find that he wasn't naked. Not this time. He frowned, though, at the thin hospital gown.

"What the..."

"And there's the _Messer_ we all know and love."

He jerked his head, toward the voice. And winced. There was Flack, sitting in the chair beside Mac. They were sitting side by side in a way that told you they had been talking, in one of those age old adult conversations.

"I'm in a hospital."

Mac looked at Flack. "His deductive reasoning is as sharp as ever. I knew there was a reason I wanted him on my team," then he glanced back at Danny. "How are you feeling?"

He didn't know. He hurt. Looking toward the voice had jarred something in him. He was sore, but it felt good to be sore. He'd felt numb for so long.

"_Alive_."

Flack met his gaze with his own, and for a moment the two connected in a way Danny had avoided.

"About time."

And he remembered the dream. All of them. All of the dreams, if that's what they were. Of Lindsay as a child, of Lindsay alone, of Lindsay hurting and of Lindsay with Blake. And he remembered Lydia—or Lucy. Louie had said to name her Lucy. That's what Reuban had said.

What Rueban had wanted, in the end.

And he remembered more, as they ache of it all was still with him. "Where's Lindsay?"

Mac glanced at Flack, then hesitated. Danny looked between the two of them, thought of Lindsay and Lucy, standing there together in front of the Christmas tree. And he thought of the grave, with _his_ name on it. No—he didn't have those dreams for no reason. It wasn't too late. It _couldn't be_ too late.

He pushed up, panicked. "_Where is she_?"

"She's going to be fine. They have her in a room, down the hall—" Flack stood as Danny sat up, slid from the bed. "Messer—"

"Don't tell me to put on clothes. I'm not getting _dressed_," he said through his teeth. "I've got _clothes_ on."

"That depends on you perspective." Flack laughed as he took the robe Mac handed him and held it out to Danny. "At least put this on. Lindsay may have seen it all, but we don't want to."

With the aches from the wreck, it took more than he realized to put on the robe, but once he was ready and headed out the door—Flack stopped him. "Danny," he said carefully, "she's stable, but she's ... " he looked toward Mac. "She's got some healing to do. Be careful with her."

There was something in Flack's eyes—something protective. Danny felt the world drop out from under him. He remembered the wreck, remembered they were not speaking. He remembered how he treated her, what he had said and ... what he had _not_.

"Lu—the baby," he murmured. "The baby's okay?"

Flack looked at Mac again, surprise on his face. "How did you—"

"It doesn't matter—is she..."

Mac put a hand on Danny's shoulder and looked him in the eye. "They're both fine Danny. Lindsay's just going to have to take it easy for awhile."

As Danny walked out the door he heard Flack murmur— "How did he _know_. She didn't even know she was pregnant."

Danny didn't wait for Mac's reply. He followed their directions, and reached the door where Lindsay had been placed. Carefully, he pushed the door open.

And inside, he was surprised to see the woman at her bedside with Stella. He'd never met her, he was uncertain if he had ever seen a photograph. But he must have, he reasoned, for he knew without question that Lindsay's mother had come to New York.

She looked over at Danny and stood, giving Lindsay's hand a squeeze. "We'll be right back," she said.

He looked at Lindsay, just looked at her, his throat closing on itself. She was awake She looked tired—and he was reminded of the way she'd looked at night, with ... Lucy in her arms, a teenage Lucy.

"_Montana_," the name trembled from his lips. He walked over and took her hand, then sat down in the chair vacated by her mother.

"Danny."

"I'm so sorry," he said, holding onto her hand, holding onto her. "The baby—the baby's ..."

Surprised, Lindsay placed her other hand protectively over her stomach. "How did you ... they _told you_."

"I dreamed it ..." and hearing how the words sounded, he back tracked a little. "Or maybe I felt it. Maybe I've known all this time. With Reuban ... Lindsay, I'm sorry."

"It's okay to hurt," she said and lifted their joined hands to rub and hand down his cheek.

"No ... but its not okay to ... invalidate you," when she frowned, he shook himself. "Maybe you understand. Maybe I should let you understand me."

"Everyone's pain's different."

"I know," he reached out with his free hand, and set it over hers, curling his finger into hers protectively over their baby.

_Their baby_ ... _Lucy_, he remembered. He had a feeling, just a feeling, that the baby would be a girl. Or maybe he knew, because he had seen the future, or what the future could have been. Whatever it meant, he would convince Lindsay to let him chose the name Lucy. For Louie had said that everything would be all right if they named the baby Lucy.

For Louie.

But that would come in time. He shifted his eyes from their place their daughter rested, and he looked at Lindsay and looked into those vibrant brown eyes.

"I haven't lost you. Lost _either _of you."

She smiled, her fingers tightening on his. "Not yet."

"I'm scared. I'm so scared. I screwed up and a boy lost his life, a mother lost her son. I don't know what that says about me. I don't know how to be a good father. You know how mine was. You ..." he saw the look that past over her eyes. "But I'm more scared of losing you, of losing everything. Of screwing things up. You're everything to me, _Montana_. You're all that I always wanted. I love you," he said and watched the surprise—along with a dozen other emotions—pass over her eyes. "I love you so much."

"Because of the baby—"

"No—" he shook his head. "Because a dozen years ago, you were still the girl I loved, the girl I am in love with. You still had a place in my heart, even back then. You've been here for me, _Montana_, even when I haven't deserved it ... I want to be with you. I can be the guy you want me to be. I know I can. I _am_ that guy."

"I know you are. Danny ..."

"Just give me another chance."

"You don't need another chance. You're still on the same one," she brought their joined hands together and let her lips pass over his fingers. "I love you so much, Danny."

He felt the warmth pass over him, felt something settle, something come back. It surged through him. He smiled a little.

"We'll go home, back to your place. Decorate for Christmas. Really celebrate. Just the three of us. Or four of us," he smiled and glanced toward the door as a spiral of panic shot through him. "I guess your mom will be staying awhile. I hope so. I need her here to make sure you do what the doctor says."

The sound that came from Lindsay's lips couldn't be called a laugh. Not quite.

At another the sound, so slight he wasn't sure why he'd noticed, Danny turned and noticed Flack edging back out the door.

"What are you doing Flack?"

"Just making sure you got here safely," Flack looked at Lindsay and smiled gently, in the same shared look of companionship they had shared earlier at the scene. "Looks like you got here just fine, on your own."

"I had some help," Danny murmured, and remembering the time he spent with Angel in the future, felt a pang of grief—for what he knew was to come. "Why don't you stop wasting time? Find your way to a certain Christmas angel? I think she's waiting for you."

A blush stole into Flack's cheeks, "I haven't ... we're not—"

"Stop wasting time," Danny told him, and felt Lindsay's fingers tighten on his. "You don't want to waste a single moment. Trust me on this."

He looked back at Lindsay, and thought of what it had been like to see her older ... to know she had grown old without him. He didn't want to lose another moment.

Not a single one.

She smiled at him. "Danny Messer ... are you playing match maker?"

"Someone needs to," he murmured and leaned forward to kiss his girl. His _Montana_.

Something had brought him here ... right where he belonged.

"Merry Christmas, _Montana_."

* * *

**Merry Christmas!**


End file.
